When Mellaia's grandmother gives her a ritual dance to use to draw her perfect mate to her, little does she know the goddess Luna will call one of Her own sons to be that mate. Thrust into Grom's world, Mellaia is surrounded by magic and malice. Her people and Grom's have more in common than she ever would have guessed. Now it's up to her to prove it before someone kills her.
Grom raised his head, catching the wind on his cheek, feeling more wariken than man. What was it about this world that affected him so remarkably?
No. It wasn't just him. Whatever it was affected them all. His ordered band of conquerors were drunk on the rays of this little moon and restless as buck adolescents scenting their first female.
Female. The scent came to him again. Dear Monnan, the smell was divine. His soul cried out for her, even as his mind argued that she wasn't Wolkin, that the heir to Wolkin could not take a mate incapable of carrying his seed.
Her scent called him misguided. She was near-fertile, and she was the right female for Grom. Monnan, but her smell alone was enough to lure him to her. He advanced on her, following the tang of her body.
Bevor, his captain, came to Grom's side. He raised his head, drawing in her scent. A low growl rumbled up from his chest, and the captain tensed.
Grom turned on him and grasped Bevor by the throat in warning. Talking himself away of taking wariken form and ripping the other man's throat out was more difficult than he wanted to admit. For a long moment, they stared at each other. Then Bevor averted his gaze.
That took the edge off Grom's fury. "No one touches her but me," he ordered softly.
"Yes, my prince." Bevor's voice was little more than a gasp of air.
Mollified by his agreement, Grom released him and went back to his track. With every step closer to her, he wanted her more.
And then he saw her. She was a lush, breathing reproduction of the Goddess Dame herself, clad only in a diaphanous gown that reached her knees. The moon she danced beneath shimmered on black hair with deep red lights of color that fanned out around her undulating body. The triangle of her feminine curls and the caps of her dark nipples appeared and disappeared in the swish of fabric and hair.
Her dance was one of seduction, but there was no male about to be drawn by it but Grom. It was one of longing, and he didn't doubt what she longed for. It was a mating dance unlike any he'd seen before.
The dance did its work well. His cock rose to its full length. His body burned in want, fueled by the instinctive need all bucks both craved and despised.
No buck relinquishes his solitude easily.
Oh, but he would relinquish it to this little temptress. One look at the way the seductress moved her hips made it clear to him that she would taste his full length while their moon was high.
Grom motioned to Bevor to keep his men back, then strode into the clearing. He stopped as she did, staring into her pale blue eyes.
He waited for her reaction to his presence here. Would she invite his approach or would she run or fight? No matter the case, she would be his. If she ran or fought, his wariken would revel in the chase. If she invited him, it would be a sweeter mating.
Her gaze didn't shift to take his measure. Slowly, as if in acceptance of his unspoken claim on her, her hips began to sway in her mating dance again. Grom stepped toward her and a gasp escaped her lungs. She didn't flee; instead, her dance took on a more potent edge.
When he was less than a hand away, she rose on her bare feet, her swiveling hips taunting his ready length as their mouths meshed. Her small, warm hands trailed up his chest, delving beneath the bright-colored vest that announced his station. Grom shrugged it off and let it fall to the soft grass. His mate wanted him unclothed, and he would deny her nothing within reason. He might even grant her a few unreasonable things, if it pleased her.
The moon beat down on him fully, making the wariken within wild for her. Grom released his soft tied trousers and let them slip down his legs to pool around his ankles. His mate moaned into his mouth at the change, and his patience snapped.
Grom ripped his mouth from hers, steadying her as she toppled toward him. An oath to Monnan whispered from between his lips, and Grom cursed his shaking hands silently. He was a Wolkin prince. What madness was it that he was trembling in this woman's arms?
I must have what is mine. Any female who can make me tremble is my equal.
He grasped her shoulders and turned her, so her back faced him. She slipped a little and landed on the flats of her feet, bringing the top of her head to the center of his chest. Still, she didn't run from him. Grom forced her to her knees and dropped to his own behind her.
She started moving again, the soft material covering her buttocks stroking circles over his cock, enflaming him. He joined in the dance, touching her intimately, until little moans of pleasure escaped her. Words in her language whispered from her, some plea he couldn't understand.
I understand her well enough.
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